


A Question of an Heir

by LizaGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon is dead though, All the Direwolves - Freeform, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Dragon Riders, Dragons, Georgian Period, Historical Fantasy, Infrequent Updates my apologies, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, No Rebellion, Not Romance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegar Lives, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Ships as yet undecided, There be dragons, direwolves, ish, much later though, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-03-08 15:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizaGreen/pseuds/LizaGreen
Summary: Many years into the future, Westeros has moved on into a period of relative peace. King's landing has expanded, the suburbs becoming home to many Lord's second homes. And hidden within one of these houses, lives Lyanna Stark's only son, Jon Snow. He lives with only five servants, at the mercy of the Lady Catelyn Stark.But now things are about to change, starting with a single dinner hosting the King and Council. Jon is thrust into a world of politics, intrigue and dragons. His only allies: one half-sister and a cousin just as clueless as he.





	1. So the Show Begins

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a shot in the dark, but I'm trying to get over the travesty that Season 8 became. I'm not holding out on the finale so, here's something I've been working on instead. Part 3 of The She-Wolf is in the works, I'm just drawing a blank on how to end it with how depressed this final season has made me.
> 
> Also heads up: I have taken a darker take on Daenerys, taking on what I thought they were going with in Season 7 in the show (although be aware this is sparse as I usually pull from the books rather than the show) and ignoring Season 8's questionable turn to 'madness'. This comes up in later chapters just thought I would point it out now so no one yells at me later on if this is not for you.

Jon woke, to the inexorable knowledge that today was going to be a bad day. Today was the day the King arrived. Usually, the King stayed in his palace in the country, away from the populace in King’s Landing, leaving much of the running of the realm to his Small Council. Not this day, however. Because today was the Princess’ birthday.

Princess Rhaenys would today turn eighteen years of age and, due to the Queen’s late expulsion from court and inability to provide male heirs, would be sworn in as heir to the throne. So long as no male heirs appeared. And that didn’t make Jon nervous. Not at all. He tried to keep that thought in mind as he dressed, white shirt under tan waistcoat and jacket, complete with superfluous lace at the cuffs. Tan wasn’t his colour, but it was the colour of the Princess’ household and Lady Stark wished to honour her as she visited their town house.

So long as Jon stayed out of the way.

Jon was something of an oddity in society. The son of the Late Lady Lyanna Stark, Lord Eddard Stark’s only sister, father as yet unknown. A bastard who had his own house (theoretically), a lord’s (partial) education and the complete and utter knowledge that he was hated by most of his own family. Lord Stark had died some three years ago now, but Jon’s own life had been dictated by the Lady Catelyn Stark for far longer. He had been nearly six when the realm was attacked by the pirates led by Balon Greyjoy and his despicable brother Euron. Both brothers were now dead, Balon falling to Lord Stark, but the man had been wounded and unable to leave his great estate in the north of the country. Since he had turned eleven, Jon’s cousin Robb had been slowly learning how to run the estate and later inherit the titles he had been born into. He had inherited earlier than anyone thought, when what had started out as a winter cold turned into pneumonia and, with his weakened constitution, had stolen Eddard Stark from them all. Leaving estate, lordship and all its properties in complete control of Lady Catelyn Stark.

Including one town house inhabited by one, Jon Snow.

Jon could still vaguely remember living downstairs, in an actual bed, rather than the drafty attic. Wylla still seethed at his removal, ten years ago when Lord Stark had returned. Apparently, it was _unseemly_ for a bastard to stay in such luxurious quarters. Slowly, Jon had watched more and more things be stripped away from him. At age ten, his tutors had been removed, leaving only the elderly butler, Halder, to teach him what he could. Jon didn’t begrudge the man- he had _tried_ at the very least. His horse had been summarily removed from the stables- a bastard had no need to be seen, so had no need of a horse. Poor Hodor now had nothing to do, except the gardens and help with the food deliveries once a week, not that there was much. Only enough for Jon, Wylla, Hodor, Old Nan, Sophie and Halder. All of them stuffed into the servants’ quarters.

Then, two days ago, Master Luwin arrived. Luwin had been Robb’s tutor as long as Jon could remember, had visited with his Uncles on several occasions and had been rather nice if a little stiff, all things considered. The last time they had seen each other, was on Jon’s thirteenth birthday when his Uncle Benjen had arrived to deliver his birthday gift, a small mute puppy, the runt of the litter of direwolves from the north- no doubt, Lady Stark had thought it would die either in transit or within a few months. Jon had nurtured him carefully, named him Ghost and now needed to walk the two-mile journey with the wolf to reach the city park so the great beast could run around and hunt for a couple of hours. Not that it mattered too much- there was little for Jon to do, except read, play with the wolf and take good care of the small number of objects left behind by Lyanna Stark. It had been Luwin who had informed them that the King would soon be visiting, along with the new uniforms for the staff and Jon.

“You are to help the kitchen staff,” Luwin had said, slightly apologetically. Jon had shrugged and taken the jacket. Lady Stark had become more and more strict about what he was allowed to wear- most of his clothes were getting a little threadbare and he had learnt how to fix the holes in his socks a long time ago.

Now, Jon took himself down to the kitchen where Wylla and Sophie were already bustling about. Old Nan, as usual, was sat by the fire, knitting. Dishes had been set to one side, already cleaned and waiting to be sat upon the table. Sophie was fiddling with some laundry, no doubt bedspreads. Hodor was sat in the corner, happily munching on some bread and somehow smelling faintly of horses. Beside him, Ghost was gnawing on a beef joint, no doubt the toughest part of the cut set out for that night’s dinner.

“Oh, Jon!” Sophie exclaimed when she spotted him. “Would you mind helping me with the beds? It’s just, the Lady Stark only sent a message this morning, deigning to tell us that she would be bringing _all_ the children, and I’ve only gotten Their Majesties rooms finished!” She was rather red in the face, as if she had been near tears at the thought of having to make six beds, where before she had only needed to make three, in the small amount of time available. Jon gave her a smile and a nod.

The town house was rather inaccurately named. It sat in it’s own gardens, holding four stables (with land to graze those horses), not including the ones needed for those to pull three carriages (meaning, in actuality, the stables could house up to ten horses at a time) and the house consisted of six main bedrooms, a dining room, front room, back room, games room, three bathrooms, library, study and a small veranda where one could sit and look over the gardens and paddocks. Ghost loved to roam around them when not in the park. It had been agreed that only four of the rooms would be used- two for the royal family and two for the Starks. Lady Stark would share with her eldest daughter. That had since changed. Now, all of the rooms were needed, with the two daughters to share, the two youngest sons as well, and a room each for Robb, Lady Stark and their Majesties. The guest list had also seemed to double- the entire Small Council was to be here, along with Lady Stark, her Uncle, all the other children as well as her sister and _her_ son, who would be staying in the Tully house next door. Luckily, they didn’t need to worry about that one.

Jon spent that morning hauling bedlinens up to the two other rooms, recently repapered and decorated for the four children, and removing the dust sheets from the furniture. Much of the house had been recently re-done, including the room His Majesty the king would be staying in. The room which had formerly been Jon’s. He spared a short moment to peek inside. The wolves had been covered, the walls changed from soft blue to red, making it seem smaller than it truly was, and even the mattress replaced. He sighed and shook his head, turning away. There was a stab of pain in his heart at the changes the house had gone through. Before this, he had been able to pretend that none of it mattered. He could still go to his room, could still read in the library and help Halder with the accounts in the study. Now, they had to keep to their own quarters and the house was _changed_. When they finally finished, Luwin took one look at his dishevelled clothing and frowned.

“What on earth have you been up to this morning?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for you all over. We need to set the table in the dining room, and I’m hoping we have enough plates!” Jon just nodded. It was easier than saying anything.

“One moment!” Wylla snapped, waving Luwin off. “Jon, you had no breakfast this morning. Here.” She handed him a plate of sandwiches and some fruit. “I’ve let Ghost out into the gardens for now, so as soon as you’re done with the table you can take him to Rhaenys’ park. Take Luwin’s horse.” Luwin looked ready to protest that but closed his mouth at her sharp look. Having dealt with the other Stark children’s wolves, he was aware how much exercise a direwolf was in need of.

Wylla whipped the plate away as soon as he was finished and, after giving his hands a quick wash to remove any sticky juice, he helped carry the plates and crockery to the dining room. Wylla was almost like a mother to him, but Jon was reminded that she wasn’t, truly, by the picture hanging over the fireplace as they set the table. People liked to say he looked like his mother- the same dark eyes, same dark curled hair if one ignored the streak of silver near his left temple. Jon couldn’t see it. Lyanna always looked like she was ready to smile. Jon himself had always been more prone to solemn moods.

“No, no, not those ones,” Luwin suddenly stated, grabbing plates from Jon. He blinked, ripping his gaze away from his mother’s portrait to stare at the small man, as he meticulously placed them at the head of the table. _Oh, right. Of course. A bastard can’t touch the king’s dishware._ If it wouldn’t cause trouble, he would have rolled his eyes. Instead, he set to readying the rest of the table, ensuring Lady Stark’s own silverware was ever so slightly crooked. Not enough to be caught on inspection, but enough to be _noticeable_.

“If that will be all, sir?” Jon asked politely, allowing his words to lilt just a little, like Wylla’s. He might never have been to the North (despite his slightly northern accent picked up from northern servants and visiting uncles, with little other influence), Dorne or elsewhere, he had a good ear for language and accents. So, he sometimes liked to annoy visitors by slipping into Wylla’s Dornish lilt, much to the horror of Lady Stark. Apparently, Dornish peoples’ accents was too outlandish for a respectable visitor. Luwin frowned as he noticed but said nothing. One small rebellion won.

“That will be all, Jon,” Luwin sighed, dismissing him. “Be sure to be back before four.” It wouldn’t have been possible without the horse and Jon wondered how close to four he could get without getting into trouble.

* * *

He ensured he wore his old boots. He would change into the new ones later, when Lady Stark and the others would arrive. He also swapped the awful tan jacket with his own shabby black one. At least it was comfortable. Then, whistling for Ghost, he mounted the horse and, for the first time in months, charged out of the gates.

Riding had always been one thing Jon missed. That and fencing. It ached, like a missing limb, to not be able to practice his two favourite hobbies. This would be the only good thing about today- being able to charge through the streets of King’s Landing, weaving through the traffic consisting of gentlemen on their horses, carriages of noble ladies and the smallfolk going about their business. All of which jumped out of the way of one boy riding bareback behind the loping form of a direwolf. A small boy with large ears perked up when Jon reached the gates to Rhaenys’ Park, grinning as he juggled two oranges.

“Took you long enough, Snow,” Pyp said, eyeing the horse. “Where’d you get the ‘orse?”

“The Lady is coming to visit,” Jon said, watching as Ghost disappeared off into the woods of the park. King’s Landing had once been far smaller in the medieval era- over the years, as it expanded, later kings and queens had decided to give more greenery to the city, especially for the nobility who came to visit. So, the parks were formed of the once Kingswood, and the surrounding farms into houses like the one Jon lived within. The Red Keep and the windy isle of Dragonstone rarely housed the royal family nowadays- it was said that both the King and Princess preferred the comfortable estate further out than the suburbs, hidden on the ancient site of Summerhall. Pyp and Grenn had lived their lives in the old sector known as Flea Bottom, busking certain skills for money and occasionally stealing when that didn’t work. Jon had always tried to give them what he could, including small scraps of food they might have leftover that Wylla sent out with him once she heard of his two friends at the park. “I have to be back for four.”

“Plenty o’ time then!” Pyp stated, mischief gleaming in his eyes. Jon grinned with him, leading the horse further into the park with his friend at his side. He was aware they made an odd pair- a grubby street urchin and a supposed stableboy of a noble house, wandering along. There was a squeak to one side as they turned into the remnants of the woods, to find Ghost licking the face of a large boy, puffy face scrunched up to ensure the wolf’s tongue stayed out of any unwanted areas.

“Ghost,” Jon called with a smile. “Leave Sam alone. He’s all out of cake!” It was true- there were only crumbs left around Sam’s mouth.

Samwell Tarly had supposedly been sent north to the ancient Wall. His men had ‘lost’ him in King’s Landing and Jon had found him, terrified and alone, on the edge of the park. Pyp and Green had taken him in until his brother, who had been visiting the city, had found him. Least said about where his brother had _been_ the better. Nonetheless, Sam had agreed to take on a Masters’ training in return to staying in the Tarly house and caring for his brother’s syphilis in secret. Unbeknownst to their father, Sam met up with his old friends every day in the park, when Jon took Ghost for a walk. Usually, he brought lunch with him.

“You’re late today,” Sam commented. “We saved you an orange, but Pyp said he needed it for juggling.”

“Well I did! An’ Grenn di’n’t want ‘is!” Pyp denied.

“Where is Grenn?” Jon asked, settling down as Ghost ran off once again and leaving the horse to graze.

“’e got a job tending ‘orses,” Pyp said, settling down himself and returning to juggling. “At the Stark place. Some sort o’ party goin’ on down there tonight.” Jon blinked, making every effort not to react. Sam knew where he lived- Jon had offered to take him in quietly, sad he couldn’t help the other boy out- but he had never told the others. ‘Jon Snow’ wasn’t a name known to the people and he liked to keep it that way. When they had all met, Pyp failing to steal food from him three years ago, Jon had just stated he lived in a lord’s house. He didn’t remember seeing Grenn as he left, but that didn’t mean the other boy hadn’t seen him. He hadn’t really paid too much attention to the extra stableboy Lady Stark had employed for the next few days.

“Really? I heard the King was in the city,” Sam said, eyes flicking quickly to Jon and back. “For the Princess’ birthday.”

“Oh yeah, ev’ryone knows that!” Pyp exclaimed, shaking his head. One orange bounced off the ground. “Returned the other day, di’n’t ‘e? Load of excitement up at the Red Keep. No, this is something else. Green said they were takin’ on new stableboys, ‘cos there weren’t ‘nough, see? You know, since Lord Stark died all them years ago.” Jon covered a wince by shifting slightly.

“I think the town house has been neglected for a while,” he said carefully. “The Starks live in the North.”

“Well, not at the moment,” Pyp groused as he dropped the same orange again. This time it landed with a wet _splat_ , bursting open. Apparently, the juggling wasn’t going so well. “They say the king ‘imself is goin’ to be there tonight!” He looked up at them expectantly, waiting for them to be impressed. Both he and Sam gave him gratified looks without looking at each other. Pyp wouldn’t know that they were both well aware of this. That in a few hours, Jon would be kept out of sight for that very reason.

“Where’d you hear that?” Jon asked, curious despite himself. Lady Stark had been adamant no one else was to know.

“Elsa,” Pyp stated. “’Parently, old Pycelle ‘as been askin’ for ‘er services again. Told ‘er ‘e was goin’ to be in the Stark ‘ouse tonight, so ‘e couldn’t see ‘er.” Elsa was one of the prostitutes who lived down the same street as Pyp and Grenn. Her mother was the one who took in odd orphans off the streets, running a rather profitable business of buskers, thieves and whores. That two of those were supposedly outlawed made no difference to her.

“And Master Marwyn has been talking about the court visiting the Starks. Something about the King’s heir,” Sam fumbled, adding his own knowledge to the mix.

“What?” Jon asked, his startled response covered by Pyp’s own “Wot?”

“Well,” Sam started awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably, “You’ve both heard that Princess Rhaenys is supposed to be declared heir in three days’ time?” They both nodded. “There’s been rumours among the nobility that the King shouldn’t have to stoop to allowing a woman to lead.” Jon resisted the urge to snort. No doubt, Princess Daenerys hadn’t heard these rumours, otherwise the city might have been on fire. “That the King actually _does_ have a male heir. Except, no one knows who.” Jon swallowed at that thought. _A male heir. Why does having a cock matter as to who leads the country? Rhaenys has been trained for it her whole life, whether she wants it or not._ Sam shrugged at Pyp’s intrigued look. “It is just a rumour.”

“But someone had to _start_ it,” Pyp insisted, leaning forwards, oranges forgotten. “Any idea who?”

“No,” Sam said shortly. “Master Marwyn heard it in the palace and he said we weren’t supposed to speak of it.” _Meaning, he wants everyone to know at once._ Jon had difficulty keeping up with who exactly Marwyn favoured. Certainly not Viserys, and he always seemed somewhat iffy about Daenerys. What his thoughts on the King were, ought not to be said in proper company. He had been under the impression Marwyn _liked_ Rhaenys, as much as the man was able to like anyone, but perhaps he had been wrong.

“So why was he speaking of it to you?” Jon asked quietly, wary. Sam was smart, far better at academics than Jon had ever been, but sometimes he needed prodding for when common sense told you something was wrong. Sam blinked at him, startled.

“I… don’t know,” he said quietly, troubled. As was Jon. Supposedly, Sam didn’t know anyone in the city except his family and the guards. Who did Marwyn want him to tell? Randyll Tarly? Sam and his father hadn’t spoken in years. Dickon? No, he was a little too interested in swords and the new types of musket that were emerging. The guards? But if he wanted the information to slip, he could have just told them himself. Which left only one bone-chilling conclusion. Marwyn knew that Sam went out to meet someone every day- whether he knew exactly who he was meeting would wait to be seen.

They did little the next hour or so until Jon was forced to call Ghost back. It was with a heavy heart that he led the horse away. Despite the slightly dire news they had, Jon always had a good time with his friends. After tonight, who was to say if they would ever see each other again? Lady Stark might decide he had lived off her generosity enough should the King not catch wind of him first. For a moment, he wondered if he should say something: a goodbye of some sort. Except… what if nothing happened? All that would happen would be that Pyp and Grenn discovered he was the rumoured ‘Bastard of Winterfell’, who had never even seen Winterfell except as a babe. Hopefully.

Luwin was less pleased to see him when he returned.

“Look at your trousers!” he exclaimed, frowning at the dust stains on them. “Go upstairs and change at once! The Lady will be arriving any minuet. And ensure Ghost stays up there too. There won’t be room for him in the kennels along with the others.” Jon shrugged. Except for the past three days, Ghost stayed up there with him anyway.

* * *

He arrived back downstairs after changing, just as the Stark carriage clattered into the courtyard. Robb rode alongside the guards and Brynden Tully. For a brief moment, Jon wondered if he remembered him. It had been ten years after all. He was reassured as a wolf that could only be Grey Wind ran up to give his face excited licks, along with another, female wolf who might be Nymeria from the descriptions in Robb’s letters. The other three either ran or, in one’s case, sat in the courtyard. Out of the carriage descended two girls and two boys, all bar the youngest girl with the same red hair and Tully blue eyes. Then, came the lady herself, who curled her lips the moment her gaze fell upon him. Gathered in the courtyard were the small household (minus Old Nan, no doubt still knitting in the kitchen), plus the five others she had had hired to help them. Grenn was still pulling at his collar, uncomfortable, the only to have turned up before Jon left.

“Well, I suppose you are all presentable,” she sniffed, eyeing them all. “You, stop pulling at that collar!” she snapped at Grenn, bustling the children into the house. “Robb, come along!” Robb, who had just dismounted and handed the reins to Hodor- who had ambled up to him, all smiles- waved her off.

“One moment, Mother!” he called. “I need to see the wolves settled.”

“Can I go too?” the youngest girl, no doubt Arya, asked. Jon could see mud was already accumulating along the bottom of her dress and that, underneath her skirts, she was wearing dirty riding boots. Lady Stark looked about to say no, but then was distracted by the youngest, a boy of about four, shrieking that he was hungry. Wylla was quickly instructed to give him a snack and ensure he had a short nap before His Majesty arrived and Arya’s request was forgotten. The girl seemed to take this as permission, wriggling away from her mother and stumbling down the steps towards her eldest brother. Jon ruffled the fur on Grey Wind’s head with a smile as Robb and Arya approached him, pretending not to see Grenn’s raised eyebrows and curious glance. The other boy rounded the corner before he could see Robb pull him into a hug.

“Jon, it’s so good to see you!” Robb’s northern burr was far stronger than Jon’s and he smiled to hear it again. His cousin’s voice had deepened over the years and he now sounded far more like Uncle Ned than ever.

“It’s good to see you too,” Jon said, reluctant to let go. He then grinned. “I see your mother has yet to remember you are now _Lord_ Stark.” Robb pulled a face.

“Don’t remind me. We’ll be having words before the king arrives about _appropriate_ language again. She seems to forget that I’m no longer a child.” Lady Stark had been running the Stark estate and political seat since they were eleven and Eddard Stark had truly had to bow out of his duties in the south of the country. Robb had fully taken over on his sixteenth birthday, not two months ago. By the sounds of it, Lady Stark had yet to get used to that fact. “Why are you dressed like a servant?” Jon winced, stepping backwards. Robb also had a tendency to forget that, where he might be welcome, Jon most certainly was _not_.

“Lady Stark thought it would anger the King for a bastard to be seen. I’m to be working in the kitchens tonight.” Robb frowned but he was elbowed away by the small intruding figure of Arya Stark.

“You’re Jon, aren’t you?” she asked abruptly, ignoring her brother’s protests. “I wasn’t born yet, last time Father was in the city to see you, and Mother would never let me come meet you.” Jon blinked as this was all said in one long, rushed breath.

“Um, yes. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, unsure what else to say. She beamed.

“This is Nymeria,” Arya introduced the direwolf tugging at her skirts, aiming to play, affirming his suspicions. “I named her after the Rhoynish queen with the ships!”

“I heard,” Jon said with a smile, liking her already. “Robb described her well in his letters.” She beamed, grabbing his arm.

“You have to show us around before Mother remembers where I’ve gone!” she exclaimed, already dragging him off in the wrong direction. Jon laughed and tugged her the right way, listening as she continued to talk, sharing bemused looks with Robb, who just shrugged.

“She’s really wanted to meet you,” Robb said quietly. “I think she thinks you’re a brother or something.” Jon just gave him a smile. He would have liked that, he thought.

“This one’s Lady,” Arya continued, pointing to the wolf still daintily sat by the carriage. She gave him a sorrowful look, as if wondering where she was meant to be. She was also the only one with a collar, made out of ribbon and embroidered flowers. “She belongs to Sansa.” Arya made a face. “I don’t know why she makes her wear a collar; it looks stupid. That one over there is Summer. He belongs to Bran, who wants to meet you too! Except Mother keeps hold of him _all_ the time right now so he doesn’t go climbing. She doesn’t want us to get _dirty_.” This was said with emphasis, ignoring that she had already dirtied her dress, her wolf’s teeth having ripped into the delicate material. “And that’s Shaggydog, which is a stupid name, but Rickon’s only a baby. I told him it should be Shadow or Storm, but he just kept shouting Shaggy.” Jon indulged her with an agreeing smile as they made it to the kennels, which should have fit an entire pack of hunting dogs. It was only just big enough for the five wolves, Shaggydog being the most resistant to get into the stall. Jon managed to convince him with a bone and one of Ghost’s treats sat in a jar on the shelf. Lady wandered in meekly and Jon, feeling a little sorry for her, released her from the collar, to which he was promptly given a thankful lick.

“I don’t think she likes the collar either,” he commented in a gap in the tirade. Arya, who was standing on a small stool to look over the door, shook her head.

“She never fights it, but Sansa says she has to be a good girl, else Mother won’t let us keep them. She keeps threatening to release them into the wild, ever since Father died.” She sounded sad at that. “I told Sansa Mother could never. She tried once, with Shaggydog because he kept coming into the nursery to see Rickon but he never left. She even threw stones to get hm away from the cradle but that just made him mad. He’ll bite her now if he can get close enough.” There was something a little strange about hearing Arya sound satisfied with that result. “I thought you had one too?”

“Yes, Ghost,” Jon agreed. “He’s up in my room since there isn’t any left in here.” Robb frowned.

“I was wondering about that. Where _are_ you sleeping? I know Bran and Rickon are sharing along with the girls,” this garnered another face from Arya, “but I’m supposedly on my own and with my mother plus the King and the Princess, there’s no other rooms. We haven’t kicked you out have we?”

“No,” Jon said levelly. “I’ve had rooms upstairs now for years.”

“Upstairs?” Robb couldn’t seem to comprehend that. “But they’re all upstairs.” Arya, however, had caught on.

“He means with the servants, stupid,” she said, aiming a kick at Robb’s shins.

“The servants?” Robb asked, jumping nimbly away. This was obviously a common occurrence.

“Can I see him?” Arya said, ignoring the issue completely. Jon blinked and nodded, thankful for the distraction.

“If you want. So long as Lady Stark doesn’t find out I took you up there.” He couldn’t imagine what she would say about her daughter wandering around the servants’ quarters. Arya grinned, mischief alight in both eyes.

“Course I won’t tell her. You won’t either, will you Robb?” She eyed up his shins as she said this, and Robb sighed dramatically.

“Only if I get to come too,” he said firmly, grinning. His eyes spoke a different story, however.

* * *

Jon tried not to squirm as Robb’s eyes roamed his small room, shared with Halder, bed shoved as close to the fire as possible without setting fire to it. Halder didn’t like the warmth of King’s Landing, despite having lived there so long, and Jon seemed mostly immune to the heat. In fact, the warmer the place the better. Ghost liked to sleep on top of him too, so he had gotten used to sleeping in a furnace. At the present time, the direwolf was quite happily lying sprawled out as Arya rubbed his belly enthusiastically. Robb seemed more preoccupied in tallying up his meagre things.

“When was the last time you got new clothes?” Robb asked quietly, voice low. Jon now regretted leaving his old dusty jacket on the bed after changing earlier.

“Three days ago,” Jan replied evasively. Robb raised an eyebrow, glancing at the tan jacket with the ridiculous lace ruffles and shiny black buttons.

“Uh huh. And before the vile jacket and waistcoat?” Jon shrugged, trying to ignore his cousin’s sceptical tone.

“Not sure. We usually buy cheaper fabrics that are durable so as not to be a burden on your strained finances.” That was a lie and they both knew it. Considering the silk of Sansa and Arya’s dresses, both of which were new (one now ruined), the Stark finances were fine. It was that Lady Stark refused to pay out for anything more expensive for a bastard.

“Hmph.” Arya let out a giggle as Ghost paddled the air as she found the best spot.

“He’s the best!” she exclaimed, glancing up at them out of hair rapidly coming out of its complicated style. She seemed to notice and frowned, face falling. “Oh no, Mother’s going to kill me!”

“Here,” Jon said quickly, kneeling down. Wylla had taught him how to braid when he was small, showing him how to do so for his own hair. Not that Jon ever wore it that way. His curls were currently tied back with a small golden ribbon that supposedly went with his jacket. It didn’t but Jon wondered if that was the point. He quickly pulled the ribbons and pins out of her hair and twisted it into a simpler braid, far more northern in style. He had seen a picture of his mother with this hairstyle and it suited Arya just as well as it did her. Working out how to pin the shorter, baby hairs was the tricky part. “How’s that?” She gently patted her hair, eyes wide.

“It’s… it’s brilliant! I could ride with this too!” She beamed up at him, eyes wide. “How did you do that without trying to pull half my hair out?”

“Because braids aren’t supposed to do that?” Jon replied questioningly. Wylla had always been gentle with his hair, no matter how difficult it could be.

“How do you know how to braid?” Robb asked, wide-eyed. Then shook his head. “Ah, silly question.” He was grinning now. “You and your hair.” Jon rolled his eyes. Even ten years later, and Robb still made such similar jokes.

There was a soft knock on the door and Halder stuck his head around the door. The man was practically bald now, only faint white wisps of hair left on his head, made all the paler by his own tan jacket.

“The Lady is looking for her daughter,” he half-whispered, fiddling with a loose thread on his own lace cuffs. “I will say I found her in the library.”

“Make it the stables,” Robb said quickly, picking her up before she could protest. “It’ll be more believable.” Halder nodded and bustled Arya away. She sent him a wide-eyed look and Jon just gave her a sympathetic grimace. It was the best he could do for her for now.

“She seems… energetic,” Jon said quietly, rubbing between Ghost’s ears as the wolf looked up to see where his new friend had gone.

“That’s not the issue here,” Robb said tightly. “I remember that your room was blue. And not in the attic.” Jon cringed inwardly.

“I believe the King will be arriving soon,” he said, attempting to leave the room. Robb grabbed his shoulder, stopping him.

“Jon,” he said shortly, eyes narrowed. “The truth. Now.” He gulped, sitting on the bed.

“It’s been years since you came. Since… Uncle was able to come. As soon as we heard he would never be able to make the journey, we were also given orders for me to… move out. It wasn’t right that a bastard be given such generous rooms, the same as trueborn children. It was made clear I ought to be lucky I wasn’t being thrown out on the street.” He didn’t mention that that order _had_ come through, a year or so ago, and they lived on the vague promise that Robb would never see him thrown out with nothing more than the clothes on his back. Pyp had mentioned that he would be welcome at their home- a man who could read was always a boon in Flea Bottom. No doubt, Lady Stark was planning just that once this night was done. Robb was frowning heavily.

“When this is all over, I promise you, we’ll sort this out,” Robb promised, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I have to go. Before Mother decides I need a search party too.” Jon watched him leave with sad eyes.

“When this is all over…” he echoed slowly, fingers carding through thick fur. “And when is that?” From the snuffling of Ghost’s nose, he didn’t know either.


	2. A Dinner to Remember

The King arrived with much clamour, but Jon didn’t see it. He was busy in the kitchen, helping Wylla with the last pieces for dinner. The beef and lamb were already in the ovens, the pig crackling over the old-fashioned open fireplace, Jon turning it slowly to ensure an even heat the whole way over. It had been roasting all day, Wylla slaving away over each course, so Jon had been happy to take over an hour ago from poor Halder who had been roped in after Sophie had to run and help Arya with a new dress. Jon had heard Lady Stark shouting from his room as he descended the stairs.

He did notice when Princess Rhaenys entered.

The Princess was radiant, in a gown of deep gold in the latest fashion, complementing her Dornish tan skin, dark hair and ample figure. The jewels she wore were amethysts, matching her eyes and glittering in the light of the fire as she surveyed them all work. The boy Wylla had had turning the spit most of the day was now curled up, exhausted, for a couple of hours with a jug of water, ready to take over when Jon was needed elsewhere. Her gaze rested last on him, a slight crease in her eyebrows.

“Why on earth is everyone dressed in this awful shade?” the Princess asked, gently touching Jon’s jacket, thrown haphazardly on the kitchen table to keep it (mostly) clean from the soot of the fire. The new staff glanced at each other warily, apparently taking a break and not offering a hand to help. Wylla took little notice.

“The Lady wanted it, to honour your mother’s house,” she said shortly, busy chopping, peeling and cooking various vegetables. The Princess’ frown deepened but she abandoned that thought, straightening.

“We appear to be one place short,” she said imperiously. Luwin, who was hovering behind her, approached nervously.

“I assure you, Princess, the places are correct. Nineteen. Eleven for the members of the Small Council and their families, six for the Starks and two for the Royal Family,” Luwin stuttered, ticking them off with his hands.

“And when did we say there would only be the two of us?” Rhaenys asked, raising one delicate eyebrow. Jon’s heart sank. “You, help this man count, would you?” He winced as she pointed at him. He had no choice now.

“As you wish,” he murmured. Wylla kicked the boy back to his feet, ensuring Halder wouldn’t need to be called in _again_ , as Hodor wandered into the kitchens followed by Grenn, both dirty and smelling of horse.

“Hodor?” Hodor asked brightly, smiling. Rhaenys blinked as Jon picked up his jacket. Grenn stared a moment, eyes wide. _Say nothing, please say nothing_ , Jon pleaded in his head. Grenn must have seen something in his face, because he closed his mouth quick.

“Yes, food is over there,” Wylla said as if he had asked a true question, gesturing. “Make sure the lords’ carriages are ready for later. They’ll be going again after dinner.” Rhaneys watched this all this in silence as Jon took his time, dragging his feet. Eventually she got impatient.

“Come on,” she snapped, grabbing the back of collar and hauling him out of the kitchen. Luwin looked alarmed for the Princess to be manhandling him so, but Jon wasn’t surprised. Rhaenys had always been rather forceful. He was dragged away from the kitchen up, into the house and then up again, heart sinking further as he realised where they were going. The door opened to reveal the room now painted red, hiding the dragons near the ceiling and the fresh sheets. Sat in the chair by the fire, book in his lap, wineglass in hand, sat the King, Rhaegar Targaryen. Luwin shuffled in after them meekly, confused. Jon swallowed as he was fixed with a harsh stare.

“Where have you been?” Rhaegar asked, eyes narrowed, taking in the soot-covered shirt, rumpled tan jacket and servants’ boots. Jon wasn’t sure how to answer. He didn’t need to.

“He was in the kitchen, turning the spit. Like a servant,” Rhaenys sniffed, her delicate hands curled into fists. Jon could watch how the King’s jaw tightened, showing just how hard he was gritting his teeth.

“And why were you in the kitchen?” he asked silkily.

“Ah, Lady Stark suggested it,” Luwin stammered nervously. Rhaegar’s gaze sharpened, turning to him. “S-she thought it would offend you. T-to be in the presence of the Lady Lyanna Stark’s natural son.” At least he hadn’t called him a bastard. Rhaegar’s frown deepened.

“Natural son?” Jon winced at each ice sharp word. He couldn’t even feel sorry for Lady Stark. She hadn’t known. No one had.

“It was your story,” Jon injected quickly, before this could escalate. “She… she didn’t know.”

“Perhaps not Lady Stark,” Rhaegar stated icily. “But Lord Stark did. You don’t make these many changes in three years.”

“Lady Stark has run the estates since the end of the war,” Jon said quietly, shrinking under that gaze. “I don’t think he knew either.” Rhaegar scowled properly now as Rhaenys practically vibrated in anger next to him. Luwin watched, bewildered. Eventually, Rhaegar sighed.

“Master Luwin, ensure an extra seat is added to the table, on my left, and then take Ja- Jon to change,” he said evenly, sounding like he was biting back quite a few choice words. Jon winced.

“I don’t have anything to change into.” It was the wrong thing to say, but it had to be said. It wasn’t as if he could wait for them to find out his only other decent change of clothing was patched with slightly wonky stitches. The scowl was back as Rhaegar ran his gaze over him once more, calculating.

“Just, tell the kitchen and see to the dinner places,” he dismissed Luwin, who practically fled the room. No doubt, to warn Lady Stark the King was not happy and that it had something to do with Jon Snow. No doubt, he would hear about this later. If she got the chance. “Arthur,” Rhaegar called to the man stood in the corner. “What do you think?”

“If we can get someone to pin them in slightly,” Arthur said with a wry smile. “You are not as slim as you once were.” Rhaegar raised a pale eyebrow, sipping from the wineglass, hiding a grin.

“Go get Wylla,” was the dry response he got back.

“She’s busy with dinner,” Jon said quietly. “There’s only been six of us for a while, five if you discount Old Nan, and Lady Stark only drafted in another five for the next few nights. Most of them maids.” Another twitch from the King.

“Then get my sewing kit,” Rhaenys snapped suddenly, unable to contain herself. “You won’t be going in rags,” she sniffed, already heading to her father’s trunk. It was technically a lady’s skill to sew and Rhaenys had been rather good at it if he remembered rightly. Then again, she was also good with a bow and lance and Jon couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t stick him with a pin in the jugular, the mood she was in.

“I can’t go,” Jon resisted, clutching the jacket close. It might have been awful, but it was also a shield. A shield from the rumours Sam had let slip earlier that day, niggling away at the back of his mind all afternoon.

“You will be going,” Rhaegar stated finally. “We have an announcement to make. Why else would I drag that grubby little mouse Pycelle down here?” Jon winced, dragged further into the room as Rhaenys held up certain pieces, made a face and threw it unceremoniously back into the trunk.

“But-“

“No buts, brother,” Rhaenys snapped, holding up a black jacket decorated in red threads, nodding. “And stand still. Or I _will_ stick you with a pin.” Jon winced again but acquiesced. She dragged a red shirt out, pinning the sleeves back a little too- their father was taller than Jon, although he had never seen him dress in these things. No doubt, some hapless servants had packed them, thinking he enjoyed wearing such superfluous things. Rhaegar was dressed for dinner simply, in a plain waistcoat, and deep purple jacket, black threads picking out small roses on the cuffs. It was also devoid of lace, as was the one Rhaenys had picked out for him, thankfully.

“I take it lace is now out of fashion?” Jon ventured nervously. Rhaenys gave an undignified snort.

“It was never in for men,” she said as she worked.

“You should tell Lady Stark,” he said, standing as still as he could. Rhaenys and sharp pointy things had always been bad news in the past. She poked him with a long nail.

“Don’t stand so stiff, or I’ll stick a pin in you for real,” she joked. “And I’m going to enjoy informing Lady Stark her children’s clothes haven’t been fashionable in the south for nearly fifty years now.” Jon had noticed that the girl’s necklines were significantly higher than he had ever noticed them in King’s Landing and Robb’s own jacket had short tails compared to the longer ones on the jacket Rhaenys was carefully pinning closer.

“It is also colder in the north,” Rhaegar pointed out placidly. “We aren’t all as lucky as the Dornish for weather.” Rhaenys rolled her eyes.

“There’s practical and then there’s attempting to join the Silent Sisters.” She pulled back a moment, considering him. “You’re lucky those boots are new, else we would have had to change them too and that the trousers weren’t too bad. But, it’ll do.” She nodded and placed pins and sewing needles away. Jon shifted carefully in case she had left in any surprises. Thankfully, it seemed his sister had remembered to remove all the pins.

When they had been younger, sometimes she had left them in on purpose.

His relationship with Rhaenys had been a little fraught in the past. A couple of times, before Lord Stark’s death, Jon had been invited to visit the ‘Lady Martell and her ailing Father’. Lady Stark most likely assumed this meant Doran Martell and the Princess Arianne, Rhaenys’ cousin, probably as some kind of curiosity stunt. In truth, it had been Rhaenys and Rhaegar themselves, under assumed titles. Originally, she had hated him, especially when Jon had been little, and the realm had no knowledge of the King and Princess Elia’s quiet divorce. It had been a marriage that just hadn’t worked, worsened by the loss of Aegon to pneumonia during his first, bitterly cold, winter. Elia followed a year or so after. That Rhaegar already had a new wife and son by the time both Elia and Aegon breathed their last had grated on Rhaenys’ young mind. Then, one day, she had found him crying in the gardens, weeping for a mother he didn’t know. Jon had tried to hide his tears as she jeered at him, made worse by their mutual worry for a father fighting in a war. Right up until Wylla had come rushing out, Lyanna’s ornamental rose paperweight fixed after being run down to the local carver. It would never be the same- a long crack still ran through it today- but it was one of the few things he had left of her. After that, she had softened, little by little, until she finally saw him as a true brother. Unfortunately, the older they got, the more duties she had to attend to, and there had been no more visits to _this_ estate since the war.

“I really don’t have to go,” Jon tried again. _I don’t know if I can do this_. Rhaegar frowned but Rhaenys held up a hand.

“We have some time before dinner. I think I’m in need of some air myself,” she said carefully, and Jon swallowed. There was no getting out of _that_ blatant request. He nodded and offered his arm, hoping it was still the correct form. Rhaegar just nodded, placing the glass on the side table.

“Dinner doesn’t start until the King sits,” he stated dryly. “Fifteen minutes is all I can buy you however. Unless you _want_ Wylla to deliberately serve it cold.”

“I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the extra time,” Rhaenys quipped. “Those additional servants were doing nothing when I left the kitchen, except the cookboy.” Jon said nothing- it wasn’t like it was untrue.

He guided her through the house, playing the charade Rhaegar had set up the day he was born. Rhaenys had been right- the air _was_ refreshing, and he appreciated the gentle breeze with closed eyes. He could probably walk the gardens blindfolded by now, having explored every inch of them as a boy, and more with a direwolf puppy.

“Someone got wind of this… arrangement,” Rhaenys said quietly. “Or at the least, that Father was coming here.”

“Who?” he asked, trying to rid the sick feeling in his stomach. _Is it true? Will I have to…?_

“We think Baelish.” He shuddered- Rhaenys had been explicit in her carefully coded letters. Baelish was a slippery eel and would do anything for more power. He seemed to think he could do things without their knowledge, but he was too good at his job to remove. For now. Rhaenys had spent much of the last year chasing leads that suggested Baelish had been embezzling the realm for years- she couldn’t work out how they were spending so much a year. Certainly, the crown had cut off funding Storm’s End and Robert Baratheon’s infamous spending habits years ago.

“I thought you were avoiding revealing too much to Baelish?” he asked.

“We were. But unfortunately, the little worm has been dropping hints to the wrong people that the Targaryens are no longer fit to lead. After all, a _woman_ cannot rule.” She sniffed at the end of that sentence, but Jon could sense her hurt.

“You’d be a good Queen,” he said solemnly. “Far better than me.”

“I don’t think you’ll get much of a choice.” She paused, as if sensing how pale he had become. “If we could, we’d have kept you here forever. I _know_ you want nothing to do with the throne, and Lyanna never thought you would inherit when she married Father.”

“She didn’t even know she was pregnant, when she married Father,” Jon muttered, for once slightly bitter at his mother. It was rare, but there was much to be said for proper planning that neither the King, nor Lyanna Stark had taken to ensure accidents like Jon _didn’t_ happen. Had they married even a week or so later, he might have been declared a bastard for true.

“Stop that,” Rhaenys said, giving him a playful slap. “I know they could have done better, but the past is the past. And with Aegon no longer with us and the Council refusing to accept me…”

“None of us have much of a choice,” he finished with a sigh. “I know.”

“Father was adamant for years, but they just won’t _listen_ to him about this. Bunch of old-fashioned coots,” she growled, grip tightening on his arm.

“At least Viserys won’t get to be king,” he half joked. Rhaenys gave him a look of mild horror.

“He’s been offering himself as a potential husband,” she said with a shudder, “or Daenerys as Father’s next wife. Never mind the fact that incest has been outlawed for near a hundred years.”

“Didn’t stop grandfather,” Jon pointed out wryly.

“Which is exactly why Father _can’t_ marry Daenerys, which has got her in a _right_ tiff, I tell you,” Rhaenys said, eyes alight with dark amusement. “I think Viserys has had her convinced for years that she’ll do so and give him heirs. Especially after that whole debacle with the dragons and the Dothraki Khal she ran off with two years ago.” Jon shuddered to remember it. For a while it had not been an uncommon occurrence for the Princess to fly her personal dragon, Drogon, over the city. Many had wondered if she was considering burning them all to death or was ransoming them to the King. No matter that she had supposedly honoured Rhaegar by naming one of her so called children after him.

“Why would that make a difference? I thought no one else had bonded with them,” he asked. Rhaenys shrugged.

“Wishful thinking on her part, I think. The Masters at the Citadel declared she was barren or had only a slim chance to conceive again after the damage her stillbirth did to her womb,” she said quietly. “I think she was maybe hoping they would give her some leeway and _destiny_ would do the rest.” Jon frowned, wondering what _that_ meant. Rhaenys rolled her eyes when she spotted it. “Apparently, in Essos, they hailed her as a Queen, and it’s given her airs and graces since she came back. Tried to bring some Dothraki with her until Father forbade it. Considering their rape culture on each conquest, it would be political suicide to help them cross the Narrow Sea, not that you could convince Daenerys of that. She spends most of her time on Dragonstone now with Viserys, who is only getting worse by the year.”

“Are we sure she isn’t…?” Jon asked.

“Not sure. I think she was at least drunk with power until Father brought her back down to earth, but Father isn’t certain either. He’s warned her he’ll be keeping an eye on them, to be certain. But I would be wary, just in case.” There was a cough from the veranda, and they turned to find Arthur standing guard, tapping his wrist subtly. “Well,” Rhaenys sighed, “that’s all the time we have. You remember your table manners?”

“Lady Stark may have dismissed all the tutors six years ago but Halder’s finickity about them,” Jon said, attempting to joke. Rhaenys sent him a sharp glance, her grip telling him that this was news to her. No doubt, a lot of what would be said would be new to her and Father.

* * *

Jon had never been to a dinner like this, and certainly never to the horrified glance of Catelyn Stark, who half rose out of her chair in protest. Rhaegar’s gaze kept her in place. She was still positioned next to Rhaenys, who was less than pleased by this arrangement, Jon having been thankfully placed next to a shuffled-up Robb. As the Lord of the Stark seat in Parliament and as the hosts of the dinner, both Robb and Lady Stark had been granted places of honour next to the King and heir. The rest of the children were crowded down the end, Arya having been seated opposite the sickly form of Robert Arryn, who looked about ready to throw a tantrum. Rickon looked far more rested and as impressed as Arya with his elder cousin.

The Small Council was arranged in order of importance, of who was there at the very least. Jon Arryn, the surprising Hand of the King (supposedly to smooth ruffled feathers after Jon’s parents’ affair and subsequent marriage), was seated away from where his wife had been sat leaving an empty space across from him, next to Robb. Then came Stannis Baratheon, opposite his wife, Selyse, and then Mace Tyrell, Lord Baelish, Pycelle and the two Stark children and their cousin. Next to Selyse, was Mace Tyrell’s wife (Jon didn’t know her name, his education had never stretched that far), as well as who could only be the famed Queen of Thornes and the Tyrell heir Willas, then Sansa, Lysa Arryn (who wanted to be as close to Robert as possible and not the least bit perturbed by being sat between the children) and Arya. Sansa was sat dutifully straight, blushing prettily at Willas Tyrell, despite him being several years her elder and already engaged to be married, regardless of his crippled leg.

Only his immediate family, Robb and Arya looked happy to see him. The others were a mixed group of horrified, perplexed or, in Olenna Tyrell’s case, bored.

“Are we ever getting onto dinner?” she snapped, fingering the glass of wine in front of her, “or are we going to gawp at the Princess’ paramour some more?” Jon might have blushed at being named a paramour; had he not been concentrating on the rapidly changing expressions on Lady Stark’s face. Selyse Baratheon let out a scandalised gasp as her husband ground his teeth. Stannis had an infamous dislike of prostitutes, male or female, after his brother’s notoriety for them.

“I assure you,” Rhaenys stated, faint distaste in her voice, “the Targaryens are dedicated to stamping out the tradition of incest in the family.” Obviously, Olenna had pricked a little too deep with her infamous barbs. She covered a choke on her wine, looking at him now with far more interest. Jon resisted the urge to shift. He felt his Father’s hand come to rest on his shoulder, giving it a subtle squeeze.

“That we are. But I’m sure you are all famished from your travels. Rhaenys, Jaehaerys, if you would?” It had been a long time since anyone had addressed Jon by his given name. Lady Stark looked momentarily confused, before her face went pale as he sat, the full implications hitting her. Jon avoided her gaze, focusing on keeping all emotion off his face. He had just been dropped in a pit of vipers and he had no wish to be bitten tonight.

This meant, unfortunately, he had to ignore Robb’s subtle elbow digs for answers as the first course was brought in.

Only Halder of his own household had been deemed fit to carry in trays, dishes and jugs of wine. Jon barely tasted the food, however, taking only a bite or two of each course. Wylla had without doubt, outdone herself, but he knew with dread what was coming. It was Rhaenys’ birthday, she was supposed to be declared the heir, except, now he had been revealed. A _male_ heir, exactly what the Small Council wanted. A puppet Baelish no doubt thought he could take advantage of. That thought turned each mouthful to ash, made his stomach spin and it was only an effort of will alone that prevented dinner from making a reappearance. _Starks don’t do well in the South_ Uncle Ned had always been known to say. _But he left me here. Did he think I wasn’t Stark enough that it wouldn’t matter?_ It was a panicked thought, and uncharitable, but Jon had little time to be charitable right now.

Finally, dinner ended. Jon hadn’t yet worked out whether that was a good or a bad thing.

“So, Jaehaerys,” Baelish started, voice slick and oily, “this is most certainly a surprise.” Jon wished he was sitting further away than four seats down the table. But he would have to face the man eventually.

“That you are guests at my table, or my guest at all?” he asked, sipping his wine, careful to keep his tone neutral. Without inflection, to throw the man off. It seemed to somewhat work as Baelish raised an eyebrow, calculating. Rhaenys was watching him carefully, one nail tapping quietly on the table.

“Why, your presence of course!” Jon wondered how someone could sound so enthusiastic and be so hollow about it. “This is, after all, a wonderful surprise for the realm.”

“Worried for my sister, were you?” he asked dryly, wondering if it were possible to drown in wine. Olenna Tyrell hid a guffaw behind her own cup, amused by that statement. Baelish blinked slowly, bemused.

“It is the law that the heir must be male,” he said silkily. “We were all worried that your father would be forced to remarry, or that we should be calling Viserys our new king!” A heavy silence settled over the table as Jon refused to answer that and Baelish gave an awkward cough. “Not that that would be a problem for many years, I’m sure.”

“Mm,” Jon hummed, feeling awkward under their scrutiny. He wasn’t prepared enough for this.

“Well, he’s certainly a very forward young man,” Olenna commented, raising her glass in Rhaegar’s direction. “I’m sure what Baelish is making a mess of asking is, where on earth have you been hiding him? It is, after all, well known that the Stark estate has been derelict for some time with only the minimum of staff to upkeep the place.” Jon resisted the urge to look for dust they had missed over the last week.

“Well known to you, perhaps,” Rhaegar mused slowly, swirling wine in his glass carefully. Dark indigo eyes glittered dangerously in the candlelight. “To many of you, I have no doubt.” Lady Stark shifted uncomfortably, looking as if she were wishing to be elsewhere. Jon had vaguely noticed that she, too, had been picking at her food all evening. “To myself, and Lord Stark, I hear, not at all.” Olenna blinked as Mace frowned.

“You can’t mean to say he’s been living here? A poor home for our Crown Prince!” he exclaimed, ignoring Olenna’s sharp look and Willas’ soft sigh. “No offence meant to the Lady Stark, but this place is looking a little worse for wear despite the household’s best efforts.” Jon watched as Luwin flinched in the corner, as did Lady Stark. By the set of his shoulders, that Jon could see out of the corner of his eye, his cousin’s face was most likely getting stonier by the second.

“It is,” Robb said slowly. “I’m afraid many of the property documents appear to have gone mysteriously _missing_ under my mother’s governance.” Lady Stark flinched at the blatant slap in the face and Jon pressed his lips together. For all he had suffered over the years at her hands, she had never been a terrible mother to her children. Lady Stark didn’t truly deserve the ostracization she had placed upon herself inadvertantly. But there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Missing,” Stannis said flatly. “I was under the impression you were raised to take over Riverrun and all its holdings, Lady Stark?” Catelyn appeared to brace herself, placing her dessert spoon down just so.

“I was,” she agreed. “However, the Stark holdings are far greater than that of my father’s and not all were included. This house, for example, existed on only a sole piece of paper to state that the Starks owned it. My Lord husband refused to give me the full details of the place and so I assumed that it was to be abandoned. Especially after the war, when he was unable to travel far, as you well know Lord Baratheon.” She had drawn politeness around herself as a kind of armour against their sharp words. Jon could see none of them believed her. He considered speaking up but there was little he could say in her defence. This, she had brought upon herself.

“You assumed,” Rhaegar said, voice deadly. “You did not ask. Even after knowing it was my late wife’s inheritance.” A hush settled once more, and Lady Stark became a little paler.

“Y… I did not know, Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head. “I only knew it belonged to the Lady Lyanna…” She trailed off, eyes wandering to the portrait over the fireplace. “I thought the memory of her too painful for my husband. I apologise for the mistake.” Rhaegar nodded once, dismissing the topic for the moment.

“Now, I believe Baelish mentioned the question of inheritance,” Rhaegar stated. His own neutral tone was far better than Jon’s.

“Poorly, but yes,” Olenna agreed. “I believe he is vying for Viserys or new marriage last I heard.” She swigged wine as Baelish glared across the table.

“No marriage,” Rhaegar said patiently, waiting. Mace shifted.

“I would have thought it would be obvious, what with Prince Jaehaerys’ presence here?” he asked supposedly delicately. It wasn’t anywhere near close.

“Jaehaerys?” Rhaegar asked. Jon tried not to frown.

“Rhaenys has been trained in the running of the kingdom,” he started diplomatically. Pycelle waved a frail hand.

“The Princess may still advise,” he wheezed, a fake cough here and there. Jon felt the faint frown deepen on his face. “It is _tradition_ that the heir to the throne be male. If you choose to abdicate, it will fall to your own children or Rhaenys’ firstborn son or, should you all perish, Prince Viserys.” From the malicious spark in his eye, Jon knew who he was batting for. After all, Cersei Lannister had just been wed to the Mad Prince.

“I have said nothing of abdication,” he tried not to snap, “merely that she is the better candidate. Female or not.” He sipped again at the wine, wishing this dinner would end. “Added to that,” he began, cutting through Pycelle’s reedy objections, “it is also law that the heir be the firstborn. Targaryens have started Civil Wars in the past over that very question.” There was a slight shudder around the table to remember Rhaenyra Targaryen and her fiery death. The Dance of the Dragons had only soured further over the years. It had also been the last history book Jon had been reading this last week. He wasn’t as avid a reader as Sam, but certainly more than his northern cousins.

“That may be,” Baelish began, conniving as always, “but we have not needed to debate the law this way since Rhaenyra Targaryen’s death, nearly a thousand years ago. I do believe our dear Master of Laws is right and that the choice is obvious. If you are, in fact, a Targaryen.” Rhagear placed his glass down harder than needs be. Baelish seemed to realise that he had overstepped once again, flushing. Jon could see why Rhaenys had allowed him here now- he was downright _distracted_ by Lady Stark. And that was a somewhat horrifying thought. “Just checking,” he coughed, “I am sure Your Majesty has all the proper paperwork.”

“Jaehaerys’ birth certificate has been kept at the Citadel, as per _tradition_ ,” Rhaegar half growled, “Not that I was aware the Master of Coin needed to be worried about the paperwork of _law_.” Baelish’s eyes narrowed, seeming to realise that he hadn’t been as subtle as he thought.

“Of course not,” he agreed readily.

“I suppose the true question,” Willas Tyrell began, contributing for the first time, “is not who the heir shall be, but rather how far his education has come? I would be happy to offer my services to bring the Prince up to date after the… problems Cersei Lannister left within the Court.” Rhaegar considered this a moment, glancing between Jon and Willas. Jon just hoped that this would end soon. As soon as he was able, he would be back upstairs with Ghost, fingers buried in his thick fur.

“That seems… acceptable,” his father agreed. Olenna looked a little triumphant, proud that at least _one_ male member of her family wasn’t an idiot. “Rhaenys, too, will be staying here to see to Jaehaerys’ education.”

“And of course, he will need a steward,” Rhaenys interjected, before the others could object. “Like Arthur is for you Father. Did you have anyone in mind brother?” Jon blinked. A steward? Someone to help with the mountains of paperwork and to be his closest confidant? Lady Stark was looking expectantly across the table at him, most likely hoping to redeem herself. Instead, Jon found himself blurting out the first person that came to mind that fit what a steward would need to do.

“Samwell Tarly.” He flushed as half the table looked confused. Olenna Tyrell looked intrigued.

“Randyll Tarly’s son? I had heard he had been sent to become a Master, but those idiotic guards lost him. Can’t imagine how, the boy’s large enough to spot,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “I would wonder how you met him?” Her eyes were sharp, and Jon placed his own glass down to give himself a moment to think. _This was a mistake. I should have named Robb; everyone was waiting for me to do so. Even Rhaenys._ His sister had looked startled and now curious, waiting like everyone else.

“I found him after the guards left him in a tavern. He was waiting outside, lost, and I offered him a place to stay. He declined and has been staying in the Tarly town house within the city,” Jon said carefully, leaving out several of the more scandalous details. “He is incredibly smart and a good friend. He would make an excellent steward.” Rhaenys nodded slightly, showing that this had been somewhat the right thing to say. Olenna still looked vaguely unconvinced, but acquiesced.

Dinner, thankfully, concluded soon after and Jon tried not to look like he was fleeing the room, feigning tiredness as an excuse to leave.


	3. The Prince, The Steward and The Stableboy

“You did well,” Rhaenys said calmly, as she rubbed his back. She had arrived not too long after Jon had escaped and found him heaving over the chamber pot, having finally lost the battle with his stomach. He gingerly wiped his mouth and accepted the glass of water she held out, grateful for her presence. “For your first time.”

“I should have picked Robb,” Jon muttered, gulping down the water.

“I will admit, I thought you would,” she said softly, “but I do not know this Samwell Tarly. I trust your judgement, especially if the Queen of Thornes has heard of him.” Jon let out a small laugh despite himself.

“His father wanted him to become a Master so he wouldn’t be able to inherit the title. Sam’s incredibly smart but he’s not exactly what one would call athletically inclined.” Rhaenys laughed, eyes alight with mischief.

“One doesn’t need athleticism to be a steward, but they are in need of a keen mind.” She paused, thinking. “If he _was_ sent to be a Master, then he certainly must have the brains for it. And Robb… well, I think your Uncle taught him a little _too_ well.”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked, looking up at her, pushing the chamber pot away. It seemed his stomach had settled enough that dinner wasn’t going to make another unwelcome visit.

“Well,” Rhaenys started, shifting a little uncomfortably. Her dress was attracting dirt from the floor and Ghost was watching from the bed, head between his paws to watch them both. “Your Uncle was an honourable man. And in ordinary circumstances, that’s a good thing. In Court? Such blatant honesty can get you killed. And Robb seems to have taken those lessons to heart.” Jon’s heart sank, swallowing hard.

“And now he’s taken over the title of Lord Stark in Parliament,” he said hollowly, feeling cold. Robb was a good man- his attitude the moment he had seen Jon again attesting to that- but good men never lived long in King’s Landing. Stannis Baratheon was a good man but ruthlessly practical, understanding that he ought not to speak up when he disagreed with certain things. Would Robb do the same? Or would he feel the need to speak up, to go against the dangerous parties within the Court? If someone like Baelish got their hooks in him… Jon shuddered to think of how _that_ would turn out.

“Only in Parliament for now,” Rhaenys assured him. “They might propose laws, and Mace Tyrell is a buffoon, so he brings most anything before the Small Council, but they do have to be approved. And there isn’t much trouble he can get into in the Criminal Courts.”

“But he’s now cousin to the Crown Prince,” Jon pointed out. “People are going to be vying for his attention more than ever. Robb’s a good man but sheltered. He might get caught in a plot against us without realising it.” _Especially if that plot has pretty eyes_ came an unbidden thought. Jon tried to shove it down- Robb spoke of pretty girls all the time in his letters but had made it clear he would never cause scandal for the family. He wouldn’t be _that_ gullible. Hopefully.

“You know I’ll do all I can to help,” Rhaenys said comfortingly. “And you’ll have your friend here soon, helping. And if you can win over Daenerys…” She raised an eyebrow with a half smirk. Jon scowled.

“I am not offering to marry her,” he said firmly and Rhaenys laughed.

“Not quite what I meant, but close enough,” she managed to say through giggles. “No, I meant those dragons of hers keep most of the Court wary of her. No one wants to become food for a dragon.” _And if you can become her ally, they’ll be wary of you_ went unsaid. It was a viable plan but…

“I don’t know anything about Daenerys,” he pointed out. Rhaenys shrugged.

“Just tell her about this place. I might even send a letter, suggesting she come visit her nephew. She loves a good sob story- it’s what got her to release half of Slaver’s Bay.”

“I thought it went right back to selling slaves the moment she left?” Rhaenys rolled her eyes.

“I said she loved a good sob story, not that she was good at ruling. Conquering, yes, but she doesn’t have the patience to understand the political nature of keeping such a hostile environment from killing you.” Jon raised an eyebrow as Rhaenys sighed. “Her heart’s in the right place but… well, anyone who decides to walk onto their deceased husband’s pyre to birth dragons isn’t exactly right in the head. And I think she misses the idea of having children.” Jon winced at that. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that there was a reason incest was banned. Such unions led to near disastrous consequences, the least awful among them being infertility. It seemed the Masters had withheld that information from Daenerys. Their father also suffered from his parents' (and the lesser known realisation that they were following in the footsteps of _their_ parents) decision to marry- Rhaegar had been more or less forced to live in the country due to issues with his health and a theory that so much inbreeding had caused a breakdown in how well his body could fight the diseases pervasive in the city. It was only after this discovery that he had subsequently banned both Viserys and Daenerys from the city, likely fearing for their own health as well.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Robb, who was slightly out of breath as he flung the door open with unnecessary force.

“When on earth were planning on telling me that your father is the _King of the Seven bloody Kingdoms_?” Robb asked, face half furious to hide the hurt underneath. He then seemed to realise that Jon wasn’t alone and immediately went red in the face. “Um…” he coughed, and Jon couldn’t resist the urge to laugh at him. Ghost had sat bolt upright, startled by the door but settled once again as Jon reached up to ruffle the fur behind his ears.

“When it became necessary. Unfortunately, Rhaenys ambushed me before I could,” he said, glad to no longer have to talk about his aunt. The idea of tangling with the Dragon Princess was a little overwhelming and he needed time to think this through. Not in the least since the Tyrell’s would be sniffing about as well.

“I didn’t ambush you,” Rhaenys stated with a huff. “I simply went looking for you.”

“You dragged me out of the kitchen by the scruff of my neck!”

“You would never have come otherwise,” she said, studying her nails as if they were far more interesting. Robb took the moment to observe them, sprawled inelegantly on the floor as they were, his eyes flicking between them and the chamber pot, to Ghost who decided to flop off the bed and onto Jon’s lap, as much as he could fit. Jon shoved him back, allowing him to play with the cuffs of his jacket instead. Rhaenys frowned, giving him a firm slap to the arm. “Don’t let him do that. This is the only decent outfit you have, and we have to go into the city tomorrow to get you more.”

“It isn’t even mine,” he pointed out. “Besides, Ghost hasn’t left holes in years.”

“He’s three,” she sniffed. “That’s hardly years and it means he’s technically still a pup.”

“He’s a direwolf.”

“Exactly my point.” Robb shuffled quietly.

“I’ll, just, er… go,” he said awkwardly. “Your Highnesses are clearly, um, busy.”

“Sit down, Robb,” Jon said, rolling his eyes. Robb looked about to argue until Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. He sat abruptly on the edge of Halder’s bed, leaving about the space of a foot between them. Hardly proper, but they were all crammed into a small servant’s room that was only supposed to house one person not three, two beds and a direwolf.

“Your Majesty,” he said, inclining his head. Rhaenys almost looked like she wanted to laugh.

“I believe we can do away with the useless pleasantries,” she said with a coy smile. “We are, after all, sat on the floor of the servant’s quarters.” And wouldn’t that excite the Court gossip mill if they ever heard.

“Oh, well, yes.” This was bordering on too awkward. Jon almost felt embarrassed for his cousin.

“I did mean to tell you,” Jon murmured, stroking still trembling hands through Ghost’s fur. The direwolf seemed to sense his anxiety- the sheets on both beds had been ruffled showing how unsettled he had been during dinner. No doubt, he had been jumping between them, trying to find the source of such unease. “There was just never a need before.”

“The _King’s_ son,” Robb stressed. “That is something one ought to know _before_ you have dinner with the man.”

“And implicate yourself in this whole mess?” Jon snapped, a little annoyed. “Your mother dug her own grave and you truly want to have jumped in with her? It would take the Old Gods themselves to prevent Varys from discovering what happened here.” Robb looked about to protest as Rhaenys raised a hand.

“My brother has a point,” she said delicately. “Varys’ spies are hard to track down, but I am certain at least the cookboy is one of his little birds. Perhaps even that pretty maid who poured your wine tonight. Harmless information to most. Deadly for your mother. Soon all the Court will know that the Crown Prince has lived in near poverty due to her actions and within the week, the whole kingdom.” Robb looked aghast at that.

“Are you telling me _everyone_ knew about you?”

“No,” Jon said firmly. “Wylla once worked for the Daynes, who kept mother’s secret. Varys knew I existed- that’s why the Court knows me as the ‘Bastard of Wintefell’- because Uncle took me there to be blessed by the Old Gods but not the identity of my parents. Sophie, Halder, Hodor and Old Nan all came from Winterfell and had worked with my mother before. We knew they weren’t his spies. My tutors were similarly chosen by Father to keep Varys occupied elsewhere. He might seem omniscient, but there are cracks in his network.” Rhaenys nodded, agreeing.

“It might seem a little hard to comprehend,” she said gently as Robb leaned back, eyes wide. “But the Court is nothing like Winterfell or the North. I am sorry that Jae never got to tell you, but we couldn’t risk the wrong people finding out at the wrong moment. Besides, Lyanna was adamant that she wanted him to grow up as merely a normal Lord’s son. Our Father tried his best to fulfil that wish, as did Lord Stark, but none of us could have foreseen that our brother Aegon would never have survived infancy or that we would have no other siblings.”

“Or that the Court would decide to follow archaic laws,” Jon muttered, slightly bitter. Despite the hardships caused by Lady Stark, he _had_ enjoyed his life of anonymity. He had made friends both in the nobility and of the common folk. He had worked hard to be able to perhaps take over this or another estate in his life. But all that had changed now. In three days’ time, he would be presented to the public for true and all that would be gone. No more would he be able to take Ghost for walks alone or talk with Pyp and Grenn. He would be guarded night and day, forced to interact with the Court and learn all that a Crown Prince ought to have been taught for years. He swallowed back the urge to sob. Or perhaps scream. He wasn’t sure which was more appropriate at the moment.

Robb was still glancing between them, processing. He pressed his lips together, taking in the room once again.

“I want to stay,” he started quietly. “If you had chosen me as your steward, I could have.” Jon winced, remembering again just how easily he had passed over his cousin. It might have been the better decision in the long run, but for now it was just another gaping void between them, another bridge burned. “I can only stay as long as Parliament is convened.”

“So, another two weeks,” Jon murmured. Parliament wasn’t always a player- they only came to meet for the creation of possible new laws, the trials of certain important criminals and in the decisions over who ran the country. It was to ensure that no more mad kings made it to power and if they did- as in the case of Jon’s grandfather Aerys- were removed as quickly as possible. Too many times in the past, the Targaryen kings had thought themselves invincible. At one point, they had almost been destroyed by rebellion of great lords and smallfolk alike, and then the new political system had been put into place. They had convened now for the announcement of the heir and to consolidate any laws that had been recently proposed. All the Lords would be in the city by tomorrow evening, making the likelihood of Daenerys turning up on his doorstep suddenly all the more imminent. _I cannot do this_ he found himself thinking. _It’s just too much_.

“That isn’t necessarily true,” Rhaenys stated carefully. “After all, this _is_ a Stark property. As my brother will soon be declared the heir to the kingdom, he will be expected to either live with us or up at the Red Keep. Or perhaps the Targaryen house here in the suburbs.” _You don’t have to return north when your family leaves,_ was what Jon heard. From the expression on Robb’s face, that wasn’t what he did.

“Are you expecting me to just throw Jon out because he isn’t a Stark by name? Lyanna Stark was his mother which means-“

“That he has wolf blood, yes,” Rhaenys interrupted, irritated. Perhaps he ought to have warned her that sometimes Robb needed things minced up a bit. “But he is also a _Targaryen._ The only son of the King. The heir to the Seven Kingdoms. It will be expected for him to make a tour of the country of course, but he cannot stay in another man’s property. It isn’t _tradition_ and I don’t know if you noticed, but the Small Council loves their precious traditions.” It seemed he wasn’t the only one who was bitter about tonight’s turn of events. Robb blushed.

“Oh,” he said in a small voice. “Of course.”

* * *

Rhaenys was true to her word. The next morning, he was woken by Halder, tapping his shoulder, the jacket and his best trousers laid out from the night before. His white shirt from last night’s uniform was waiting to be worn under it. The jacket was a little ostentatious for everyday wear, but it was the only thing that he had suitable for a Prince. People would expect anyone accompanying the Princess to _not_ be dressed like a nobleman’s servant. Jon sighed and simply dressed, Ghost watching from the end of the bed.

Robb had left them soon after the end of the conversation the night before. Lady Stark had wanted a word with him before they were all to see their beds and so they had said a few awkward goodbyes, Halder watching from the door. Rhaenys had instructed he be up early and that he ought to pack up his things. Halder was already busy packing up the meagre belongings he had up here, Ghost attempting to help by occasionally bringing the odd toy he liked to chew on. Namely Jon’s old teething toy of a wooden wolf, now looking more like a shapeless lump for how much Ghost gnawed at it.

“Presentable,” Rhaenys said, dressed in blue now as he came down the stairs. It was a pretty sky blue, decorated with small yellow blossoms on the bodice and only a couple of petticoats, meaning it was light in the face of King’s Landings oppressive heat. They left the house to be confronted by Grenn, holding the reins of the horses next to Arthur, who would be driving. His eyes widened when he caught sight of Jon, once more in the company of the Princess and Jon wondered if the Old Gods perhaps hated him. There had been no time to explain to his friend what was happening, and they would be calling in on Sam as well today.

Thankfully, Grenn had enough sense to not speak up in front of Rhaenys, though his sister did glance between them curiously. She waited until they were inside the carriage and off, into the city, before speaking.

“The stableboy seemed to know you,” she commented, and Jon huffed.

“He’s a friend from the city. He doesn’t know who I am, other than my name,” he replied to her blatant fishing. This caused her to raise both eyebrows.

“You made friends with the commoners?” Jon frowned.

“I made friends with _people_ ,” he stressed. “They had nothing, and it didn’t feel right to do nothing for those with less than I.” Rhaenys blinked but let it go.

“I sent a letter to Daenerys this morning. She’ll probably beat us back to the house.” Jon squirmed slightly, uncomfortable. He wasn’t looking forward to this meeting, but he supposed it was necessary. Daenerys would be a formidable ally to have, if one were able to control her fluctuating moods. “That or she’ll fly all over the city looking for us. That’s why Arthur is here. If we happen to see a dragon, he knows what to do.”

“I still don’t see why Ghost couldn’t come,” Jon groused, irritated. The direwolf was still shut up in his room.

“We’re supposed to be dragons, not wolves. He can come with us _after_ we meet with Daenerys. In public.” Jon scowled but kept his silence. He knew what Rhaenys said made sense, it just felt _wrong_ to not be accompanied by the wolf. Doubly so after seeing his cousins and he had yet to meet half of them. Sansa was the only other he had met, although she had since stopped sending him letters after politely (as much as one could) informing him that it was not appropriate for her to be corresponding with a bastard. No doubt informed by her mother.

Their first call was to a tailor, who couldn’t work fast enough to accommodate the Princess. Jon stood still as the man fluttered about, talking with his sister about this fabric or the other, the best colours that would go with his complexion, how their father was doing and whether he wished for a new outfit too? Rhaenys kept the man at bay, letting him chatter mostly, occasionally vetoing some of the man’s more outlandish suggestions. Yellow was disregarded- the tailor was apparently under the same impression that Olenna Tyrell had been and had tried to insist they ought to match. Rhaenys informed him yellow made Jon looked washed out and that it most certainly was not his colour and to stick to darker shades. This started a debate about the differences between being too conservative and too fashionable. Jon just waited it all out, not listening to half of it. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see Ghost, pacing the small confines of his room, waiting for him to return. This daydream was interrupted at a point that Wylla came to set the direwolf free into the gardens (Ghost running off, searching for the familiar scent of his master that stopped in the courtyard, beyond the now closed gates and instead returned to Rhaegar, who was reading on the veranda) by Rhaenys calling out to him.

“That will be all, Mr Whitaker,” she said, a polite smile on her lips. “We will be back in a few hours to collect the first pieces. The rest can be sent to the Stark Household.”

“The Stark Household?” the man stated, startled. Then he gave Jon a more considering look, eyes narrowed.

“Yes. Is that a problem?” Rhaenys asked, tone sickly sweet. Whitaker jumped, giving a small nervous laugh.

“Of course not, Your Highness! And many happy salutations for your birthday yesterday! I hope the gown was to your liking?”

“Very,” Rhaenys said, half dragging Jon out of the shop. It was clear she was just as eager to leave as he. Arthur was waiting for them by the carriage, as was Grenn who was feeding the horses. “Arthur, I believe we can walk to the Tarly house from here,” she said when he went to open the carriage door. “We’re in need of the fresh air.”

Wandering the streets with Rhaenys was very different than wandering with Ghost. People still stayed away, but now it was in awe rather than fear of the beast with many teeth. Jon cringed under their stares, all clearly wondering who this boy was that walked so close to the Princess. He recognised very few within the city- it was rare he made his way into the crowded streets, preferring the parks- but he did sometimes come to this part of King’s Landing in search of new books. That was a rare occurrence and more recently it had been to visit Sam. Grenn was watching them silently behind and Jon knew they would never be able to avoid this confrontation forever.

Just a little longer.

The Tarly house was one of many set up on the old Street of Silk, so named for its many brothels. It was now a respectable street of lofty houses, the brothels having been converted several centuries prior into second homes for the lesser houses, far from the capital. It was likely many of the lords didn’t know what it had once been- Sam had spent a good five minuets red in the face as he explained to his brother that, _no_ , Silk Street had _not_ once been home to ancient seamstresses and tailors. Pyp and Grenn had howled with laughter when hearing of this.

The footman who opened the door was surprised to see them. He spluttered a moment, before managing to regain his dignity a little.

“I’m afraid Master Dickon is not home yet,” the man said stiffly after Rhaenys let him sweat a while. She gave him a sweet smile.

“That is alright. We were in search of Samwell Tarly, rather than his brother,” she explained, expression open. Jon resisted the urge to roll his eyes- Rhaenys had lost none of her Mother’s wiles and clearly still enjoyed winding men up. The footman’s eyes widened and made excuses a moment, allowing them inside as he ran off in search of poor Sam. He hoped his friend could forgive him.

“You think we could invite Grenn inside?” Jon whispered as they waited. Rhaenys pursed her lips, thinking.

“Varys probably has little birds following us, but most likely not inside this house. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell Arthur to let the stableboy go to the kitchens for a drink and some small morsel of food. We were at the tailor longer than I thought.” Jon gave her a bright smile and went off to do just that. Arthur nodded at his instructions, waving Grenn around the side of the house and through a small archway that no doubt led to the street’s hold for carriages and the backdoor to the Tarly House. A few moments later, as Jon re-joined Rhaenys in the entranceway, Sam came puffing down the stairs, eyes wide and flustered.

“Your Highness!” he exclaimed giving a clumsy bow. He gave a nod as greeting to Jon which he returned with a smile.

“Sam, this is the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen,” Jon said as introductions. “Would we be able to ask for some refreshment?” Sam nodded, sending the wide-eyed servants off and leading them into the parlour himself. From the ink splattered on his hands, Sam had most likely been copying some ancient text or other for the Masters, or perhaps penning letters for Dickon. Sam offered Rhaenys the chair that gave the best view over the street, the one which avoided the half-hidden plaque proclaiming the street’s less than savoury history and in full view of the pretty flower stall opposite. His sister accepted graciously, Jon taking the seat next to her and Sam sat opposite them both. A maid soon appeared with tea, which she served to each of them before Rhaenys sent them off.

“I hear Jon knows you well,” Rhaenys started once they were alone again. Sam nodded, hands shaking as he added sugar to his tea. Jon declined both milk and sugar, finding their addition cloyingly sweet to his tongue.

“Y-Yes, Your Highness,” he squeaked. “He was most kind to offer me his home when the guards… um…” He trailed off, looking unsure.

“She’s aware of how you came to be here,” Jon said, sipping his own drink. “Mostly.” Rhaenys raised an eyebrow.

“Mostly?”

“You don’t want to know,” Jon said firmly. As amusing as it would be, whatever Dickon got up to was his own business. He had no wish to create a scandal now. Rhaenys thankfully accepted that as an answer. Sam glanced between them, eyes now calculating. Jon could almost see him adding up the similarities, of what there was, between them. While they both took after their respective mothers and only Rhaenys had inherited Rhaegar’s eye colour, they both shared his long face, aristocratic nose and high cheek bones. If one looked carefully enough, they could see the resemblance between them, and Sam would be one of those.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Grenn. The footman looked somewhat insulted to have to lead a slightly grubby stableboy into the parlour. Jon resisted the urge to laugh.

“Your ‘ighness,” Grenn said awkwardly, shuffling slightly on the carpet as he attempted a bow.

“Join us, please,” she said, inviting him to sit in the only seat one couldn’t see from the window. The only way one would be able to see him would be if they pressed right up against the window and Jon was certain Vary’s ‘birds’ were smarter than that. Grenn sat just as awkwardly, his large frame looking almost ungainly in the parlour that Sam’s mother had decorated. It was all soft pastels, right down to the floral china. Sam didn’t much care, but Dickon spent as much time out of the house as possible- he seemed to think it was some kind of shame to spend so much time within an area used mostly by women.

“So, um, what can I do for you, Princess?” Sam asked, curious despite his nerves. “N-Not that th-this isn’t an honour!”

“Oh, there’s nothing you can do for me,” Rhaenys said almost pleasantly. “However, my brother has a proposal for you. Well, both of you truly.” Grenn spat tea over the table, thankfully missing Rhaenys’ gown. Sam’s eyes widened, looking less surprised by Rhaenys’ declaration but, rather, satisfied that one of his hypotheses had been confirmed. Jon shifted uncomfortably as they both turned to look at him.

“So, the rumours were true?” Sam asked. “There really _is_ … and you are…?” He leant back, flushing as he realised how little they would be able to follow his rapid thoughts, half voiced. Used to this, Jon just nodded, relieved that Sam didn’t feel the need to act differently around him. Grenn might need a bit more convincing however from the looks of his still gaping expression, tea dripping onto the tablecloth from the spilt cup. “But then… why _are_ you here? And what do you need from us?” Jon placed his own cup down, politely ignoring Grenn’s slip up as he suddenly noticed the scalding tea, which had now reached his trousers and began to hastily mop it up, red in the face. Rhaenys was pretending to watch the girl selling flowers.

“Well…” Jon started, unsure how to proceed. How did one request someone to become their steward? Sam was technically already employed under the Masters, but Jon _could_ still ask, as heir to the throne. But his own education had ended six years ago, and a lot of Court etiquette was lost to him. “Our Father… the King will be announcing my presence to the Realm in two days’ time,” he began again, aware that he ought not to refer to Rhaegar so familiarly in public, Father or not. That would take some getting used to in his family’s presence. Sam nodded, waiting patiently. Jon was thankful his friend was so understanding of how poor with words he could be. “As Crown Prince, I would be in need of a steward.” Jon paused, unsure how to put it but Sam had already caught on.

“You want _me_ to be your steward?” he asked, eyes wide in surprise. “But… But what about your cousin? Or perhaps one of the Tyrell’s? They’re of a higher standing than the Tarly’s…” he babbled in usual fashion. “Surely they would a better choice?” Rhaenys was looking impressed by his knowledge. Not even Arthur was this versed in Court politics, although Father kept him around for other reasons. Arthur was not a typical kind of steward.

“I’m sure that I want you,” Jon said firmly. Sam cut himself off, flushing. But he nodded, smiling.

“I’ll have to write to the Masters… and of course, I’ll have to let Marwyn know I won’t be as available anymore as well as my family,” he mused out loud, ticking off a mental checklist. “Father won’t be happy to hear I’m not with the Masters, though,” he added miserably, tailing off.

“Let us deal with your father,” Rhaenys said firmly. “As for the Tyrell’s, you’ll have plenty of time to reacquaint yourself with them. Willas has agreed to help with my brother’s education, lessons which you, too, will be required to attend.” Sam blinked as Jon cringed at the thought. He knew enough about the Queen of Thorns to know that she, and much of her family alike, were born and bred to be ambitious. Next thing he would know, he would be offered the woman’s granddaughter for a wife. Another reason to keep them at arm’s length.

“I don’t understand why I’m ‘ere?” Grenn asked shyly when the room fell to silence, Sam muttering other considerations, reaching for pen and paper already, creating one of what would probably be many checklists for his new position.

“Work,” Jon said kindly, aware that this was not the most comfortable setting for Grenn to be in. Next time they spoke, he’d ensure it would be in the stables. Or perhaps Rhaenys’ Park during one of Ghost’s walks, if the Kingsguard his father sent would let him. _Oh, Gods, there’s going to be Kingsguards following me around now._ He shoved that thought down, along with the welling panic, to focus on the task at hand. No need to scare off Grenn by freaking out himself. “I know my Aunt employed you only for the next week or so, but I will be in need of more help around the estates I will soon be living within. And Hodor’s family has long served the Starks. I wouldn’t think to take him with me. And there would be work for Pyp too, should he be so inclined.” _And any others you deem trustworthy_ he didn’t say but Grenn nodded, understanding all the same. The one thing he could rely on was that his friends were not a part of Varys’ network of little birds and, no doubt, they’d know who might be susceptible to becoming such a thing.

There was a faint shriek from outside.

“I believe that is our cue to leave,” Rhaenys injected, eyeing the large shadow above the city. “She’s decided to bring all three.”

“That was quick,” Jon observed, mouth dry all of a sudden.

“Everything’s quick if you can travel via dragonback. I suppose we shall have to send poor Arthur out for the clothes after all.” Rhaenys’ voice was sad. Jon knew how she felt- it had been nice, to simply be out and about with his sister after so long, little to worry about except the few tasks they had set out for, the most important this meeting here. “We shall see you tomorrow for luncheon, Master Tarly?” Sam blinked, glancing up from his notes.

“Oh, yes, o-of course!” Sam stammered slightly, blushing. Jon got the feeling he had been so engrossed in his task that he hadn’t even heard the dragon.

They were swiftly bundled back up into the carriage, the curtains closed so they couldn’t even see out into the street. Jon didn’t want to. He had seen the terror the dragons inspired in the people of King’s Landing after half of The Hero’s Wood had been destroyed for one of the dragon’s lairs. What had once been a place where the smallfolk who lived on the edges of the city could graze their sheep, had become a barren place that only until recently couldn’t even be ploughed to produce a crop. A concern a Princess had little care for, but one that could mean life or death for the poorest farmer trying to feed his family. No one lived on that side of the city anymore. Despite the supposed rush though, Rhaenys still insisted that they stop by a bookstore on the way back, under the guise of needing to look for a book for Father. Jon got the feeling Arthur only indulged her this small boon for similar reasons that Jon himself felt.

No one wanted to be confronted by a dragon on their own doorstep.


	4. MY COMPUTER HAS DIED

Hey guys, dramatic title but have to add this from my phone. Updates are going to be incredibly slow as my poor ancient elderly computer has finally given up the ghost and I can’t afford a new one for a while! There may be a couple but until I can get my hands on a replacement to properly get back into writing there won’t be regular updates for a few months. My apologies for this I’ve been trying like mad to find a solution between finishing unit and starting a new job but I don’t have one just yet. I will take this notice down once I have a new computer so you will know when I have a new one and updates can become regular again.


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